186 OLD PLYMOUTH TRAILS 



the wood thrush rings mellow and serene. Here 

 is a woodland chorister who sings of peace and 

 calls to holy thoughts, voicing the evening prayer 

 of the woodland world. As his angelus rings 

 out I fancy all wild heads bowed in adoration. 

 Certainly the wood thrush's call touches that 

 chord in the human breast. To listen to it with 

 open heart is to know all things are for good and 

 that a peace from mystic spaces far above the 

 woodland is descending upon it. Heard through 

 this song the tone of the brook's voice changes 

 and instead of swift-syllabled gossip I seem to 

 hear it softly crooning a hymn. 



